To dance with the devil
by E.Phoard
Summary: A study of John's personal growth during his time with Vera, ultimately exploring the reasons behind his decisions to leave Anna for Vera, and vice versa.


Chapter 1

She was at the foot of the bed, bathed in moonlight. Slowly she began to undress. John's breath caught. Slowly, she undid the buttons at her wrists. No matter how many times John saw her like this, it was always like the first time. Familiar, yet strange.

Her fingers, nimble and lithe, moved to the few buttons on the front of her dress. John reached up. He wanted to help her. He needed to help. She started on the back. She wouldn't let him help. She batted his fingers away. He was supposed to watch. Just lie back and watch. He did. A single candle was burning. The curtains were open. She was completely, utterly, unself-conscious.

Her dress slowly slid from her body. In her white underthings she glowed in the warm soft light. Somewhere a dog was barking. A bell was ringing. John barely heard them. He wanted to help, he needed to feel the way her body regained its natural shape as it reflaxed from the tension of the day, from the confines of its clothing. He wanted to run his hands along the top of her breasts, just evident, slide them down her front and feel her breasts change in his hands. He wanted to remove her corset and run his hands along her sides and back and feel her quiver under his fingers in the chill as her muscles relaxed. He didn't. He watched as she slowly undid her corset and let it fall, followed by her shift. There she stood, in her stockings and a set of shorts with delicate ruffles around the legs. Those went next. John stopped breathing. He again noticed how flawless her legs were as she raised them, one at time, to the bed to unfasten her garters.

She smiled at him, and raised her hands to her hair. Her hair was still bound. John wanted to run his hands through it, to feel it around him, like liquid like silk. He watched as she pulled the pins and let them fall where they may. A hand through the waves and it was free. She closed her eyes and shook her head and groaned as it fell lose. She looked up and smiled. Why was he still dressed? She crawled up his body, pushing him back onto the bed, like a cat. Her face was so small, her eyes and mouth so large. Like a fey. His faery. His nymph.

All at once she was kissing him. She was everywhere around him. She smelt of lavendar and a sweet-salty musk. She was silky-soft and whispering. Why. They were alone. It felt right to whisper. As they kissed she worked his collar and tie off, his shirt open. She was much quicker with his clothing than she had been with her own. John smiled. His eye wandered to the window. It was snowing. She glowed. He laid back, his chest bare, as she slowly reached into his trousers, teasing before pulling them open and off. John groaned. John wasn't sure how she managed to get them off his hips, or where his shoes had gone, but it hardly mattered. He pulled her to him, and kissed her in earnest, hands roaming where they would. Skin on skin had never felt so warm, so soft, so good, so right.

Murmuring. She was his beauty. No, no. Yes. There. He was above. Now below. She was everyone at once. Somewhere something was dropped, but it didn't matter. It must have been his book. She would never age. She couldn't. She demurred. No. Her people couldn't. She writhed against him. Her feet arched. She moaned into his ear. She took his ear into her mouth. John groaned. She climbed astride. Not there. Yes. No. Jesus. Her back was arched. Her eyes were shut. Not yet. He reached, slowly, letting his hands trace her sides. Her mouth fell open. He grazed the underside of her breast. Another door slammed. He thought someone was calling his name. It wasn't important. This. This was important. She groaned as he reached a nipple. He smiled. He had barely touched it. Jesus. Her breath hitched. No, there. Now. Did he hear footsteps? There. She sighed. Sweet mother of God.

The noise was getting closer. The door slammed open, the light came in. John sat up, panting, in his chair. He looked around. She was gone. His eyes went to the door. Vera. He sighed and rubbed his hands over his eyes.

"I've been calling you, Johnny." Her words were slurred. "But I see you were busy thinking about that tart of yours."

John sighed. Protesting, defending Anna, would only provoke her.

She smiled and swayed in the door. "You should've come out with me. We'd have had a grand time, like the old days!" Her eyes difted to John's crotch. He hadn't relaxed yet. "Or maybe we could have one now." She tried to walk towards him, and tripped. John sighed. He could just stand now. She always left without saying goodbye. Just slipped out the window, or up the chimney. He had made the decision.

"Come on, let's get you to bed." John took her arm and led her from the room. It was the only decision to make. This, not that, was his life.

"Johnny, let me in with you." She reeked of whisky and smoke. "I miss you. I don't like being alone." John sighed. "You should have come out with us. Me, and the girls." John wasn't sure who these new friends of Vera were, but he was fairly certain they weren't girls. "We heard a reading of _The Christmas Carol_. Such a wonderful story. We were all in tears." John was fairly certain these girls weren't even women. "Did you ever read it? Mr. Dickens was such a gifted writer don't you think?" That walk across the hall to his mother's room, to Vera's room, had never been longer. Vera's dress caught on something. She jerked it free. "I never had much use for books, but he might make a reader out of me." They arrived. "That little tart of yours, does she read?" The drunkenness was gone from her eyes. Suddenly. They flashed in a way that made John nervous, and cold.

He deposited her on the edge of the bed, and turned to leave.

"In fact I thought that Mr. Dickens made an excellent point." Her voice was icy, stone sober. "You know the part, where the ghost tells Scrooge that he wears the chain he forged in life, link by link, yard by yard?"

John paused. He didn't need to turn. "Goodnight Vera." He didn't need to be reminded of the weight of his own chains.

"Goodnight Johnny." He heard the bed creak as she leaned back. "Aren't you going to wish me a Happy Christmas?"


End file.
